


Night of the Hunt

by Calesvol



Series: WIPs [3]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Epic Friendship, F/M, Gen, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Mentors, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calesvol/pseuds/Calesvol
Summary: A hunter must hunt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the timeline reference goes to [Shadowfangs99](https://www.reddit.com/r/bloodborne/comments/6uc3k2/bloodborne_timeline_events_of_the_entire/), although I view the time span as being only 2-3 decades instead of what's presented here. I also majorly refer to DMC Redgrave's [Paleblood Hunt](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JL5acskAT_2t062HILImBkV8eXAwaqOj611mSjK-vZ8/edit) as a major source of lore and other interpretations. Lastly, Alex Roe's [Night of the Hunt](https://alexroe.bandcamp.com/album/night-of-the-hunt) is also a major source of inspiration, the title coming from this particular fanwork.
> 
> Lastly, this particular work takes places approximately twenty years before the events of the game.

Warning(s): M, none

* * *

She wasn’t so different from the best of them, or the worst, she supposed.

It had been a long trip for Eileen, she realized as she stretched and swore a joint or two popped, as stiffness reigned over her body and an ache surged where consciousness returned. The back of the old horse cart creaked and rattled as the bumpy dustiness of the country roads transformed into the clattering foil of the brick-lain streets where narrow, high buildings rose like tombstones and teeth alike, much too crowded even for alleyways of dawdling folk to linger. Severe buildings in their Gothic beauty and absurdly ornate heights flickered with light as Yharnam’s populace withdrew in time for dinner. 

It was a crowded, ghostly sensation Eileen decided characterized Yharnam the most, as if it were some chill, pale lady beautiful but severe, sickly and thin-lipped but still the ideal for these people as equally pale. Even from the back of the wagon did the people cast her wary eyes as she passed, for she didn’t look like them. No, not with her wide, flat nose and dark brown eyes and square features with knowing chestnut eyes, all set in a complexion of dark earth; the face of a woman crossing the threshold of thirty, innocence long lost. Her shock of chestnut locks was kept beneath her floppy, wide-brim hat and her clothes were simple and androgynous. Trousers, vestments, and a dirtied duster that had seen months of travel. 

Where she’d been born, it’d been along the coast. It was not a rich life, no, but the Hinterlands saw more daylight than this place. One would think a sky that burned hotter than a bed of smoldering coals would be warmer, but for the mid-spring did it feel more akin to the autumn chill it felt they’d never emerge from. As if the sun jealously kept that warmth to its greedy self. 

Not so different from the people, but she supposed they had some right to wariness. Since the Healing Church had flourished in size and scale, more and more foreigners had come within their city, these jealous people unwilling to share but having to clench their jaws in begrudging silence. Oh, she could see it on their faces; had they the chance, they’d merrily close off their city until not a single lout was left.

“Miss Eileen?” The woman in question angled her head towards the driver, indicating she’d heard him. “I’m getting off at market square. That far enough for ya?” 

“Of course. I’ll be taking my royal arse on palanquin from there, don’t you sorry, sir,” Eileen replied with an amused chortle, earning a bark of laughter from the man. George, his name had been. A kind, humble man who didn’t make nice about the place she was going. The prettiest porcelain chamber pot there was, he’d described Yharnam. And what an apt descriptor for the place she’d be spending gods knew how long.

The narrow, cobbled streets relieved like a sewer into a nexus that was unmistakably the market, encompassed by high and leery apartments, though all mercantile activity from the morning had ceased hours ago. Flimsy, wrought iron balustrades were all that kept the townsfolk from a steep drop into the river that lazily meandered through Yharnam, likely gorged with the shit and piss of the townsfolk who dumped their refuse heedlessly into it. The faint stench of ammonia lingered in the air, at least, partnered with the fishy scent of rot from the morning’s catch having baked and decayed by what was left. As any market would, she supposed. 

The old nag leading the cart along slowed to a stop, hanging its head and whickering tiredly. If Eileen never could relate to a steed before, she certainly did now. “Honestly, if either of ya happen to stick around, remind me to buy ya a couple of drinks. You and your horse, both,” Eileen departed with a wry grin as she disembarked from the back of the cart, her sole trunk in hand. 

“We’ll hold you to it, Eileen. Just make sure you make it through this city alright, y’hear?”

That she couldn’t promise. So, she lied. Said she would and would be able to repay his kindness to many manifold times that he’d lose count and they’d both be some gutter-wasted louts somewhere, trying to repay one another until they couldn’t anymore. Yet, Eileen knew as well as any man that the retreating back of the cart and George himself oftentimes spelled the end; not for them, but for her. The letter tucked away in her lapel pocket was sure enough of that, having forewarned her of the dangers that came from this recruitment, preying on those who’d lost their villages, their people. 

That seaside village she’d called home was no more. Nothing more than a memory now buried beneath the rot of plague. 

As George had since departed, Eileen made way through these hostile masses; through shuttered windows and barred doorways bracing for the night of the next hunt, knowing that now all but the most suspicious didn’t even know the hunters existed. 

Through showing clerics and guards of the Cathedral Ward her writ of passage was Eileen able to locate the Hunter’s Workshop, a place like an island in the midst of this brick and spire city, composed of dreamy gardens and high trees that clearly yearned to belong to some old, stately forest. A misshapen paradise raised on its own pedestal of greenery moored from the rest of Yharnam. The very backside of the Cathedral Ward loomed like a shadow, and they weren’t even a quay, but some fishing vessel moored at the docks as some tumultuous storm rolled in and roiled them like waves. 

At least, that’s very well how it seemed, Eileen thought to herself as she mounted the stone-hewn stair and ascended into the Workshop proper. 

It was a neat little place, she had to admit as she entered the long, rectangular domicile. All open space and comfortably ornamented. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth while several candles burnt on little metal coasters throughout. Places of work and maintenance littered the room, interspersed with bookcases and other such places of storage. A busy, comfortable place Eileen felt an unconscious shudder of relief in. 

“Ah, you must be the new hunter,” a kind old voice rasped at her back, Eileen flinching. Alright, she hadn’t expected that. Best to keep her guard up then, eh?

Glancing over her shoulder, she pivoted fully to be face to face with an old man stooped with age and bordering on elderly, sitting passively in a rickety wooden wheelchair. Thinly framed, he looked for all the world like his top hat was too heavy for his gaunt face. Wiry, skeletal hands perched atop a cane, but he smiled kindly. 

“That I am. So, what sort of business are we gettin’ up into? Reckon I don’t need too much of an introduction; been fending myself for quite some time now.” Remembering herself, Eileen couldn’t help but chortle. “Name’s Eileen. Newest hunter among your ranks, quite at your service, sir.” Bowing a bit dramatically, Gehrman couldn’t help himself when he chuckled. 

“And we’re quite pleased to have you, Miss Eileen. My name is Gehrman, founder of the Hunter’s Workshop. Our numbers are small, but there will be others along quite soon. Make yourself at home, dear hunter, as we’ve some business to attend before you can truly begin the hunt.” 

As Gehrman wheeled himself about, gradually did he introduce Eileen to the many work benches and apparatuses around the Workshop, explaining them away and patiently answering the understandable myriad of questions Eileen posed. While everything seemed in good order, she couldn’t help the niggling sense of wrongness in the secrecy of the Workshop. Apparently, it was they and the Church Hunters that worked alongside together under cover of darkness to slip in and around the city after the nightly curfew came into effect. The Church Hunters patrolled the streets while Gehrman’s hunters took to the outer boundaries of the city and kept the roads clear of any that might have escaped. 

“Is that right? Do the people of Yharnam truly have no idea this goes on?” Eileen asked after Gehrman explained this bit to her, holding her chin thoughtfully.

“For them to know would incite mass panic. In keeping a much lower profile, we reduce the risk of more people becoming infected. It’s church policy, Miss Eileen,” Gehrman answered as the pair faced the wall burgeoning with trick weapons. “Now then: why don’t you choose your weapon and practice its move sets in the yard? You’re quite the fighter, as our recruiter has said, but it’s no good if you have hardly any idea how to use the weapons afforded you.” 

Though the Reiterpallaschwas a weapon of Cainhurst, immediately was Eileen drawn to it. Gehrman lauded her for her unusual choice and she smiled graciously at such glowing praise, but already her heart was troubled that didn’t quite show on her features as she exited the workshop proper. 

She’d lied about not remembering her past, of being a mere orphan looking for purpose all her life. True, she’d been orphaned at some point, had gotten by with odd jobs and especially as a sellsword, but she wasn’t here for the vainglory many did when they were chosen, seeing it some high-browed honor. 

Yharnam had been the cause of her village’s destruction, years ago. It had happened when some fishing hamlet neighboring them had whalers whom had taken down a highly unusual but enormous creature, pale white and dead the second their harpoons struck home. From there, the moment the monster had touched their shores, in no time at all had a devastating plague wiped out that little town, and soon spread to hers. In less than a fortnight she’d lost everyone she knew, and all they had to show for it was Church Hunters showing up and killing absolutely everyone who’d contracted the disease and transported their bodies back to Yharnam to desecrate—all in the hollow name of the sciences. 

Eileen had barely managed to escape, and had been the only survivor.

Pulled from her rapture did the crack of the firearm bit of the trick weapon lodge bullets deep in the bark of a thick tree, Eileen staring blankly at the blasted bits of gnarled bark. Was she right in coming here? Though hardly anyone had the courage to acknowledge it, the Healing Church was the tyrant that lorded over this town. Anyone who dared to question them or their motivations was immediately branded a heretic and never heard from again. Even foreigners—bright-eyed hunters and sickly patients of blood ministration alike—were never heard from again if they dared do anything but sing the Church’s praises. 

Was she betraying the memory of her family, friends, and loved ones by signing her soul away to the devil itself? 

It felt as though a pair of eyes were boring into the base of her skull, Eileen turning warily around to see a life-sized pale doll propped against the back door of the workshop that she hadn’t noticed before, unnerving glassy eyes staring directly at her despite being at an angle that didn’t seem within its metaphorical line of sight. Eileen repressed the urge to shiver at the sight of the doll, wondering if it was Gehrman’s. It had to be, hadn’t it? What a queer thing for an elderly man to own, some grimmer connotations connecting with the idea of it at all. 

Instead of lingering to ask, Eileen thanked Gehrman for the introductory day and promised to be there at sun-up tomorrow, pretending like she hadn’t seen the doll. More so, she was exhausted from the days of cramped travel and her lodgings were in Central Yharnam, a bit of a ways from the workshop itself. All she could think about was retiring to a hot meal, a hotter bath, before finally succumbing to the sweet bliss of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

She hadn’t known how many days had passed since coming to Yharnam, let alone accurately keeping track of the time itself. There seemed a sort of ineffable pall she couldn’t put her finger on, a throb that felt primal and absolutely feral. Was she supposed to fear it? Was it a portent of something that was to come, and perhaps be enough to rend them all asunder? Such thoughts kept the woman company until she dozed off, only to awaken hours later. As many of her fellow recruits were few in number, Eileen was the only Workshop hunter among those who were consigned as the Harrowed and others to the newly formed Church Hunters.

They were an arrogant sort, those Church Hunters. Many chose to simply ignore her and go about their business, swanning like peacocks in the streets in their uniforms they wore until the proper induction began. Eileen ignored them as much as they did her, and was left better for it.

Eileen arose from her Spartan twin bed, the springs creaking in protest as she winced from sleeping funny. No matter. Nothing the morning exercises wouldn’t counter, she was sure. Having bathed the night before, the woman soothed her cloudy chestnut locks into a crude braid bound with a leather tie, washed her face and hands in a porcelain bowl of water, and then proceeded to dress in her undergarments, trousers, work blouse, and vest over that. Pulling her mantle over her shoulders, she supposed this novice hunter’s uniform was presentable enough. Especially once washed of its stains and patches sewn over rips and tears.

Locking her room’s door behind her and pulling the lanyard the key was tied on around her neck, then would come breakfast and then the morning walk to the Hunter’s Workshop through a back entrance through the Cathedral Ward. Of course, she’d likely have to meet even more of those arrogant Church Hunters again, wouldn’t she? Their commencement was scheduled for today, after all.

Thankfully, she’d never actually had to speak with the blokes, so she wasn’t too soured by the fact. The Hunter’s Lodge in Central Yharnam was a nexus of activity and all walks of hunters, many non-native like her but with a good portion of Yharnam’s young and able-bodied among their honors. The foreigners like her had been relegated to the Workshop and Harrowed Hunters, agents of the Healing Church who dealt with its messier dealings under wraps. Far as she knew, she and Gehrman were the only Workshop hunters left.

The mess hall was an explosion of sound as roughhousing men and some women were loudly singing shanties and bar tunes to their coffee and bailey’s, prohibited from outright drinking before the ceremony proper. That didn’t mean they weren’t in a celebratory mood, however. Again, Eileen was disregarded as she found a near-empty table parallel to the one the Harrowed Hunters sat in almost morose silence. The line to the buffet was packed, the woman figuring she’d wait her turn.

“In rather bombastic spirits, aren’t they?” Eileen craned over her shoulder, sighting a man who appeared to be a few years older than her, gaunt-featured with dark, coppery yet ashen features. His beard was trimmed and peppered with gray, cold gray eyes calculating and darting. “Simon, one of the Harrowed. I don’t think we’ve met.” His smile was slow, but not threatening as far as she could tell.

“Eileen. I’m new ‘ere,” Eileen replied with a brief incline of her head. “I suppose they have reason to be. The Church Hunters have been celebrating since it was announced it’d formed.”

Simon smiled in a small amusement. “Yes, perhaps. I doubt their Captain would like such behavior, though.” Captain? This was the first time she’d heard of any captain. “Ludwig is a good, stalwart man. Not one for rowdiness. I can’t say he’d be happy to hear them like this.”

A smile tugged frankly on Eileen’s lips. “Let them have their fun. They’ll find that their reality will be much different once it truly comes down to it.” As the line to the buffet seemed to dwindle, Eileen nodded towards it. “A moment. I’ll be back shortly.”

So, would it be safe to say she’d made a friend, of a like? Or just an acquaintance? As she stood in her place in line, a middle-aged man with grizzled, gaunt features who looked a good amount into his forties took place behind her, shadows hanging heavily over sleepless eyes that appeared rheumy in the light.

“Damn kids makin’ all this soddin’ racket,” the man hissed under his breath, noticing Eileen had noticed him. He jerked a nod in her direction. “You a Workshop hunter, girl? ‘bout time we found a good one. Better than those fuckin’ ingrates.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle throatily at his gruff, curmudgeonly demeanor. “At least they’re almost done getting their breakfast,” Eileen noted as a bevy of them scurried off towards their tables to join in the carousing. “I’m Eileen. Been here for the past few weeks.”

The man chuffed, but it didn’t sound impolite. “M’name’s Henryk. Been away for the past weeks on some errand for Gehrman.” He gestured towards the kitchens inside the canteen where a pretty young blonde woman was scurrying amid several pots and pans brimming with food, the overpowering scent of it and heat radiant. “That there’s m’daughter, Viola. ...Only family I have left.”

Viola smiled when she saw her father, giving him an extra helping after serving Eileen. She reckoned that wouldn’t be allowed in normal circumstances, but given the occasion, she doubted anyone would mind. Henryk and Eileen took seats across from each other at the table, Henryk already beginning to dig in with the dull, spotty cutlery they’d been afforded.

“You stayin’ in Yharnam long, Eileen, or just until the Night of the Hunt is over?”

Eileen looked up from the lukewarm, bitter tea she’d been sipping. “Reckon I’ll stay if it pans out well enough.” She grew quiet, setting the earthenware mug down. “My village is no more, so I hardly have anywhere to go. I tried the sellsword business for a time, but I think I’m meant for something a bit more stable. I get along well enough with Gehrman, and he doesn’t mind what I do in my spare time so long as no trouble is started. I hear that’s hardly the same for the Church or Harrowed Hunters.”

Henryk swallowed the last of his omelet. “Aye. That he does. Gehrman’s the reason I get to stay at home with my daughter instead of being quartered with those ingrates. They’ll learn soon enough. The Church likes to keep their hunters living like soldiers, unlike the shop. Some say it’s why membership has dwindled so much in recent years.” He moved his plate aside. “Eileen, I’d like to ask you to come over for dinner one of these nights. Workshop hunters are rare enough as it is, and I’d like for us to be friends. Gehrman’s coming, too.”

“Is he now? I suppose we’ll be a little group of our own, won’t we?” Eileen chuckled as she finished off the last of her tea. Her smile was small but wry. “I’d like that. I don’t suppose we could arrange something tonight? I’ll help Viola. Poor girl must be exhausted from working here.”

“She is, but she derives joy from cooking for family whereas this is just work. Honest work, and she gets her own pay, but still work. I think she’d like the help regardless. Been too long since she’s had a friend in someone with a head on her shoulders instead of those foppish hens she gossips with in prayer group.” Though, he grimaced at the thought of something. “Just realized their bloody ceremony’s taking place tonight. Much as I’d love not to attend, we’re still an arm of the Church. We skip and they’ll have our heads.”

Eileen couldn’t help but cackle softly behind a deceitfully modest hand. “I’m sure we’ll find some way to amuse ourselves. You’ll learn to appreciate the worth a bit of gossip, hm? Especially if we sit somewhere where they can’t hear us.” She winked conspiratorially at the man who badly suppressed a wolfish grin.

“Alright, but you sit next to Viola so I don’t look like some foolish old rooster m’self.”

“I think that can be arranged, Henryk.”

* * *

They spent the rest of the day at the Workshop, spending much of it sparring. It was then and there that Eileen discovered how much of a wise man Henryk was despite his age. Gehrman was content to simply sit and watch, barking out corrections and advice on their stances. Though it was a hard several hours, by time they were finished and had cleaned themselves up enough before leaving, they were able to travel together where they helped Gehrman through the city, Viola joining them at one point.

Just a bit younger than herself, part of Eileen genuinely wondered why she hadn’t wed yet. Henryk had been quick to explain that he would be dead before Viola married someone he didn’t approve of, which no one in the city had yet earned his respect. Gehrman burst out laughing and Eileen chuckled, though Viola hardly seemed embarrassed. If anything, she smiled and blushed quite prettily.

The walk through the spires and Gothic teeth of the town proper seemed so jarring compared to the verdant peace of the Workshop and those great old trees that rose impossibly high. The stench of shit and bilge water lingered in the streets, muddying their shoes and the hem of Viola’s skirts, but the girl didn’t seem to mind. With Henryk wheeling Gehrman in his wheelchair and Eileen at his other flank, the Workshop altogether was still a small, modest bunch compared to the vaster legions of Harrowed and Church Hunters.

The latter dominated the streets as they filed from the Hunter’s Lodge and paraded through the streets, much to the zeal of Yharnam. Though the commencement ceremony was in the Cathedral itself, only them, the Harrowed, the Workshop, and their families were allowed to attend due to the restrictions in size. Eileen thought it was a load of bollocks, but she kept her flagrant thoughts to herself. People cheered from the streets, the entirety of the square outside the Cathedral bustling with stands and merchant booths as the townspeople milled about them, the zest of celebration fervent in the air.

Once all in attendance filtered in and took their seats in the pews—they a bit more towards the absolute front to accommodate Gehrman and his wheelchair—the enormous double doors in the rear eased shut with a clangor of finality and the bells tolling ceased. Since it wasn’t an actual church service, no instrumentals would play, but all the same was the din of the celebrating peoples just outside completely stifled. It was an uneasy sound, Eileen thought to herself.

The Vicar presiding was a petite, sickly pale thing that looked as though she’d blow away at the slightest insistence of the wind. Kneeling at the altar like a pious bride, being at the front gave them the best view in the entire Cathedral, even the rowdy candidates from before silent with bowed heads and clasped, praying hands. Eileen pantomimed only out of politeness, but her eye was clearly fixed on the altar itself, the weight of a significant gravity clouding over them all.

Though she didn’t know the nature of these ceremonies, from a side entrance tucked beside a pillar did a man in the stately dress of the Church Hunters proceed solemnly into the nave, bronzed features set sternly while his long, liver chestnut hair was oiled and pulled back into a thin ponytail. The man was handsome, for sure, but when Eileen saw him she swore part of her heart stopped.

Years ago, decades even, when she’d been an impoverished child as many of the peasants were, she’d a friend. A boy a little older than her, ashen of complexion with the darkest hair and a frail constitution. Tall, gangling, the boy and she had been the closest of friends. Especially in a small fishing village where people were dying off faster than they were born. Ludwig. His name had been Ludwig. Once upon a time, they’d conspired running away and starting new lives for themselves. Was this him? The same Ludwig of her childhood, or were the ghosts of the past coming again to haunt her?

When Ludwig strode down the aisle and paused before the altar, he balked suddenly when their eyes met, Eileen realizing with a sinking heart that she’d been staring. His eyes widened and mouth was just barely agape, but within another second did he genuflect before the altar again as if nothing had happened.

Hastily did Eileen bow her head in a semblance of piety despite her pounding heart, willing it to quiet. Thankfully, as everyone’s heads were bowed—including the Vicar—no one had seen the brief exchange. And thank the Great Ones for it, she thanked internally.

The rest of the ceremony continued without incident, prefaced by Ludwig being blessed by the Vicar who then gave a rousing speech to the candidates. The Vicar stood on his right with vials of the Old Blood used just for this occasion, drawing what she recognized as the Guidance Caryll Rune on their foreheads in the Old Blood. Though the smell was awful, over them did Ludwig recite their vows each candidate repeated back to him, hand over their heart.

The entire ceremony took roughly two hours to complete, Henryk hissing about sore joints under his breath while Viola quietly shushed him, earning a guffaw from the older man. Yet, Eileen seemed completely oblivious of it, watching Ludwig from the corner of her eyes and pretending to pray. He seemed more focused on the candidates, anyways.

“The Vicar’s name is Amelia, did you know?” Viola whispered as she looked sidelong at Eileen, hands clasped at about her mouth to disguise her speaking. “She’s the successor to the previous and first vicar, Laurence, who...hm, he died. It was before I was born, anyways.”

“Vicar Amelia, then? Thank you for telling me, Viola,” Eileen murmured back that got a small smile from the blonde. She had a name, even if Amelia was the last person she was thinking about. Not even the last, if she was honest.

When the ceremony ended, the candidates stood up and saluted Ludwig who reciprocated at them first, everyone else remaining knelt. Eileen swore she stopped breathing when Ludwig’s gaze flickered towards her, all before he marched down the aisle and out the doors, opening to the bombastic roar of applause beyond as the newly minted Church Hunters swelled with pride before their captain, drinking in the fawning crowds zealously. The sons of Yharnam coming into their own with the highest of honor. She supposed they were right to applaud.

Even if she couldn’t stop thinking about Ludwig. He knew.

Gods above, it really was him.

* * *

It took some fighting to make their way through the crowds congesting the square of Cathedral Ward, but they somehow managed to make it and through a passage only Gehrman knew of, no less. Before long, they were in Central Yarnam once more where Henryk’s home was, inviting them all inside. While the men retired to the parlor for a well-deserved smoke, Viola all but dragged Eileen into a pretty tea room that quite obviously appeared to be a product of her own design.

Shutting the French doors firmly behind her, she wheeled back around with the look of a giddy interrogator while Eileen sat, alienated, on a frilly, white and cherry oak settee before Viola rushed to sit alongside her. Taking the slightly older woman’s hands, the look of delight in the younger’s eyes was unmistakable.

“Oh, Eileen, you should’ve told me you knew Ludwig! Or—does he know you? You must tell me, now! He’s so handsome. So many women have fawned over him, but I don’t think he’s ever looked at a woman the way he did at you!” Viola gushed with giddiness in her pale blue eyes, pale cheeks flushed excitedly.

Goodness, there really was no way out of this, was there?

Eileen smiled apologetically. “I doubt he was looking at me, Viola. After all, I was only one out of a thousand or more, easily,” the woman evaded, trying to avert her eyes.

Viola huffed and gently swatted Eileen’s bicep. “Oh, that’s a load of bollocks, and you know it! Eileen, I quite understand it if you’re new, but in all my 25 years, I’ve never seen Ludwig at anyone like that. And I promise you, he’s been around for quite awhile.” The blonde sighed, taking Eileen’s hand in hers. “I know I must seem like one of those society airheads, but I promise you that I’m not. I won’t tell a soul, promise! I want to be your friend, Eileen, truly and sincerely. And I hope you might see me in kind, too. Not now, but maybe someday.”

Between them, they made such an odd pair: Viola had her hair pretty and trussed up in a bun, clad in a sumptuous silk day dress and with pale, unblemished skin despite all the work she did at the Lodge. Meanwhile, Eileen’s own hands were callused and she wore earthy clothing worn from years of use. Still, maybe Viola was right. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a female friend.

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you the truth,” Eileen conceded finally with a sigh. “We were friends, born and raised in the same, small village in the hinterlands. Not far from the Fishing Hamlet, actually.” Viola frowned slightly at its mention, as the tragedy there had been infamous. “We were childhood friends, the only two left after all the other children had died. Ludwig left when he was still young, to here, I suppose. I left when I was a lass myself, some fifteen odd years ago. Coming to Yharnam was a new idea, in fact. ...I simply didn’t think he’d be here. Of all places—“

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Eileen. I can’t imagine losing everyone around you. It was so horrid when I lost mother in Old Yharnam so long ago, and I can’t imagine losing papa too… Still,” she warmed with a smile, gazing Eileen earnestly, “think of it this way: you’ve found each other again! That’s why he must’ve looked so shocked. Eileen, don’t you understand? You should talk to him again. You have to reunite, you simply must!”

“I can’t imagine it’d be easy fighting through the girls who fawn over him,” Eileen jested wryly, Viola giggling.

“You’re very pretty,” Viola said frankly, Eileen snapping at the praise. “It’s true! You know, if you just wore a little rogue and something besides those ghastly hunter’s clothes, I think he’d be the one barreling through the crowds to even just say a little hello.” She giggled at the thought.

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m not one for dresses. Too much to wear with little reason to.”

“If you’ve never had a proper trailor, of course they’ll never fit! Come now, Eileen. If you’re going to be living in Yharnam, you really can’t do without at least one dress. Besides, Cainhurst Castle has the most fabulous balls we simply must attend. You wouldn’t let me go alone, would you?” Viola pleaded with the prettiest pout.

“...Mm, perhaps,” Eileen conceded vaguely. “if ever we have a ball you must simply go to, I promise to let you help me with dress shopping. And finding a tailor, all that.”

Viola lit up joyfully. “Oh Eileen, you doll! I promise to help you get the most exquisite dress Yharnam has ever seen!” She threw her arms around Eileen exuberantly, the older woman blinking in surprise.

Reciprocating the hug delicately, she couldn’t help but feel as though that were nothing but the truth.


End file.
